Mrs. Duvall opened the back door of her car and started pulling out bags of groceries. Parker watched her mother coolly, not offering to help.
If the house was a step down in the world, her mother’s outfit was a total fall from grace. Since the trial, Mrs. Duvall had worn the same long-sleeved shirt and yoga pants almost every day, though they’d gotten baggier and baggier on her bony frame as she wasted away. Her once perfectly colored hair had grown out to a dull, graying mousy brown, and it hung in limp locks around her face. And more than that, she just looked . . . tired. Like she’d battled the world and the world had won. She never smiled anymore. Never laughed. Everything was a struggle.
Mrs. Duvall looped the bags over her arm and staggered up the steps with them.
“Are you just going to sit out here on the porch all day?” she snapped.
It was surprising how much this still stung. She shot to her feet. “You’re the one who messed up, you know,” she sputtered, not sure what had come over her. Maybe it was her talk with Elliot, but she felt bolder than usual. “It’s a mother’s job to protect her family. But you just let it happen.”
The color drained from Mrs. Duvall’s cheeks. For a moment, she looked as if Parker had slapped her. Then she pressed her lips together and unlocked the door. “Jesus Christ,” she snarled. “Haven’t you done enough already?”
She pushed her way in the door and dragged the grocery bags behind her. Before Parker could follow her, she slammed the door shut. Parker heard the firm click of the lock from the other side.
Parker stood there for a moment, staring at the faded welcome mat. Fine. Whatever. She turned around and kicked the potted begonia with the tip of her steel-toed boots. It made a satisfying shattering sound against the slate pathway below.
Well then, back to Julie’s. She headed up the street toward the bus stop, past the dilapidated houses and the convenience store. But then her hands started to shake. What had she done that had been so bad that she’d deserved such horrible treatment? Why did both her parents hate her so badly?
She remembered one night when she’d been sitting at the kitchen table, not long before the night that changed everything. She’d been on the phone with Julie, laughing about something Nolan had done at school that day. Then she’d heard the door slam hard—her father was home. His footsteps were heavy, his breathing hard. Parker knew the signs, but instead of getting up and scurrying to her room like she usually did, she’d stayed at the table, the phone pressed to her ear. It’s my house, too, she’d thought defiantly. I shouldn’t have to hide.
She didn’t even have time to hang up the phone before he hit her. After her father was through with her, her mother had crouched next to her on the floor, placing a bag of frozen peas on her bruised ribs—her dad had learned to hurt her where others couldn’t see. “You need to learn to stay out of your father’s way,” her mom had admonished. “You’re making it worse.”
Snap.
Parker wasn’t sure where the sound had come from. She swiveled around and stared down the street, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Was someone following her? Taking pictures? Watching? Three teenagers came out of the convenience store holding slushies and talking loudly in Spanish. A block away, an old woman hobbled out to her mailbox. Three birds lifted off the telephone wire all at once.
No one is watching, she told herself angrily. Do you really think anyone cares about you?
The bus grumbled from the next block. Parker picked up speed to get to the stop on time. Suddenly, all she wanted was to be on the bus in an anonymous crowd of commuters, hoodie pulled around her face, headphones on her ears with the music turned up loud. The bus whizzed past the stop just as she turned the corner. “Hey!” Parker cried, waving her hands at the driver as she sprinted to catch up. The driver kept going.
“No!” Parker screamed, slapping her arms to her sides. Now she’d have to wait twenty minutes for the next bus.
Snap.
Parker’s skin prickled again. She looked around, watching as a Nissan Maxima peeled away from the curb. As it passed, she caught a glimpse of the driver through the tinted windows, but she couldn’t make out the face. It looked like a man. Almost like her father.
She could feel that sinking, pounding sensation of another headache coming on, but she tried to fight it. What had Elliot told her to do as a coping mechanism during their session? She couldn’t remember a thing. Her vision felt swirled and distorted. Dizzily, she fumbled for her phone, finding herself dialing a number.
“Hello?” came Elliot’s voice.
“Uh, Dr. Fielder—Elliot?” Her voice was high and thin, nothing like her own.
“Julie?” Elliot said uncertainly.
“N-no, it’s Parker. Parker Duvall.”